A student of nature, differing from some less fortunate folk that one
meets at wintering places, is never at a loss what to do with his day.
In a strange land, at least (the stranger the better), he possesses one
of the prime requisites of a contented life: he knows every night what
is on his docket for the morrow. His days, so to express it, are all
dovetailed together. Tuesday’s work is to finish Monday’s; Wednesday’s
is to finish Tuesday’s; and so the weeks run by. What could be simpler,
or more conducive to cheerfulness? A day should have a motive, as well
as a piece of music or a poem.
I am still at Tucson. Two mornings ago there was but one thing for
me to do. I knew it before I rose. I must take the half-past seven
horse-car, ride down town as far as Simpson Street, walk thence across
the Santa Cruz Valley to the base of Tucson Mountain, and from there
follow the narrow road that winds between the foot of the cliffs and
the old canal, till I came to a certain bush. The name of this bush I
cannot give, not knowing it, but it bears millions of small, fleshy
leaves, and, what is more to the present purpose, is covered with
thousands, if not millions, of small purple flowers.
I had noticed it for the first time the forenoon before; and I noticed
it then because, as I passed, I heard to my great surprise and intense
gratification the buzz of a hummingbird’s wings. I was not in the least
expecting to see any bird of that sort during my brief winter’s stay
in Arizona; and which is better, ornithologically speaking, to find
the long expected or the unexpected, is a point that wiser heads than
mine may settle. For myself, either happening will do, so it be not too
infrequent.
My eyes turned of themselves in the right direction, and there at my
elbow was the tiny, emerald-backed, familiar-looking beauty, hovering
before the blossoms of this spreading bush. It was only for a second
or two. Then for another such period he perched on the slender tip of
the nearest mesquite, and then was away on the wings of the wind. I
waited for his return, but not long enough, and came back to the city,
wondering.
His upper parts, as I say, were green, and he looked at a first glance
much like our common ruby-throat of the East. But in the few seconds
that my eye followed him--a time too short for catching myself up and
making sure even of the little I had seen--I received an impression
(it was nothing more) of a black head as well as of a black throat. If
the impression was correct, the bird could not be a ruby-throat, and
besides, unless my memory was at fault, the ruby-throat was not to be
looked for in this longitude. I must see the handbook.
A reference to that authority showed that eight species of hummingbirds
had been reported from the Catalina Mountains, but not the ruby-throat.
Of the two or three common ones among the eight, the most likely
candidate seemed to be the black-chinned, _Trochilus alexandri_, though
that bird’s crown is not black. Probably my impression upon that
point had been erroneous; so surprised and hurried as I had been, a
measure of inexactness was rather to be looked for. At all events, it
was impossible to make out how the bird could be any one of the other
seven. By the rule of exclusion--a pretty safe rule, I told myself--he
ought to be a black-chin.
So the matter rested, not much to my satisfaction, till the next
morning. Then, as I have already said, I went immediately after
breakfast to stand beside that blossoming bush until the bird should
again show himself. If my confidence that he would be there, in that
precise spot, no different from thousands of others in all those miles
and miles of country, all so exactly alike, beside that particular
bush, itself like thousands of others,--if my confidence seems
presumptuous, as to many readers I dare say it will, I can only profess
that it was based upon no small acquaintance with the ruby-throat’s
habit of frequenting day after day the same tree, and even the same
twig, as a resting-place, or post of observation. It was not at all
unlikely, I reasoned, that the black-chin’s habit would prove to
be similar. At any rate, there was no harm in proceeding upon that
hypothesis.
I went at once to the place, therefore, took a favorable position
with the sun at my back, focused my eight-power glass to a nicety
upon the topmost twig of the mesquite bush (quarter seconds might be
precious), and waited. As the capable reader has already divined, the
bird did not fail me, nor keep me long in suspense. There was a sound
of wings, and in another instant the hummer stood on the top spray of
the mesquite. And his crown was black, like his throat. He could not
be _alexandri_. But before I had time to take in the full awkwardness
of my dilemma--since I had already ruled the other seven species out
of the account--the bird turned his head to one side, the sun struck
him at the right angle, and behold, his gorget had long, flaring
wings, like the loose ends of a broad necktie, or, to use the homely
comparison which occurred to me at the moment, like a pair of big
mutton-chop whiskers, and was no longer black, but of a most exquisite
and brilliant shade of violet. The radiant vision shone upon me for an
instant; then, at another movement of the head, all was black again,
and in another instant the bird was gone.
Now, then, I began to see daylight. The bird, having a ruff, was not
of the genus _Trochilus_, and the question was so far simplified,
though it would be necessary to consult the book again before it could
be settled. Meanwhile, I must by all means have another look at the
beauty. Such splendor of color was worth waiting for, though it came
only in flashes. And I waited. But though the creature finally returned
to the mesquite he persisted in sitting with his back to the sun, and I
came away without seeing him again transfigured.
Another reference to the handbook, and I knew him for _Calypte costæ_,
the Costa hummingbird. But now mark how one day’s work is linked with
another’s. The book informed me that the crown, as well as the gorget
and the ruff, was “brilliantly burnished amethyst violet.” I had not
seen that, doubtless because the light had not fallen upon the crown
at the necessary angle. The detail must nevertheless be verified. Here,
then, was my business for to-morrow.
I was late in arriving,--a full hour, at least, behind my
appointment,--having walked the whole distance this time, and by a
roundabout course; and the hummer was waiting for me. “You are late,”
I fancied him saying; but of course that was my “pathetic fallacy.”
In the course of my stay he “gave me three sittings,” as my penciled
memorandum puts it, and I saw that his forehead and a spot behind the
ear were of the same dazzling, indescribably beautiful color as the
gorget and ruff. The whole crown I did not see illuminated, but the
forehead sufficed.
At one time a ruby-crowned kinglet came and played about in the same
bush, and in that comparison he seemed almost a giant. “The hummer
is smaller and smaller,” my pencil remarked, “every time I see him.”
I might have addressed him as Charles Lamb addressed the shade of
Elliston, when he saw that worthy, all his stage trappings removed,
seated in Charon’s boat,--“Bless me, how little you look.”
The identification was now complete. I had doubled my list of
hummingbirds, having seen but one species in all my previous years, and
the next morning I might reasonably have turned my steps elsewhere.
But when the hour came round I could think of nothing else I wanted so
much to do as to see that hummer again. And I followed my inclination.
It was well I did.
We were both prompt. As I drew near I saw the tiny creature perched
as usual at the tip of the mesquite. How many times he came and went
during the hour that I stayed by him I fail to remember; but on the
second or third occasion a verdin happened into the neighborhood. The
hummer descended upon him hotly, drove him away in no time, and then,
as if in celebration of his triumph, mounted straight into the air till
he was like a dot, and came down again almost vertically to his perch.
It was a brilliant and lovely display, an ebullition of vital spirits
well worth a forenoon of any man’s life to witness. There are city
parades, hours in length, with martial music and all manner of bright
regalia, that might better be skipped. And a few minutes later, the
enemy having returned, the entire performance was repeated, ecstatic
flight, vertical drop and all. The verdin’s presence, it appeared, was
extremely annoying to the hummer. This place was his. Trespassing was
forbidden, and the verdin ought to know it.
Once, watching for another flash of color, I had my glass on the hummer
as he sat quiet. Suddenly the verdin began sputtering to himself,
after his manner, a little way off. Quick as thought the hummer cocked
his head, waited an instant as if to make sure he had heard correctly
(it seemed impossible, I suppose, after such a drubbing), and then,
like a bullet out of a gun, flew at the persistent intruder. His spirit
was wonderful, and being roused to his work, he finished by descending
at full speed upon a black phœbe that just then blundered innocently
along. The big flycatcher, many times bigger than the hummer,--but so
is a man many times bigger than a rifle ball,--did not stand upon the
order of his going, but went at once. I did not wonder. The fellow
might have driven me away, also, had he taken it into his head to try.
He was irresistible. Talk of a strenuous life!
At another time he darted from his perch in a quite unwonted direction,
and flew on the line to a palo-verde shrub off on the hillside. The
verdin was there, it turned out, down at the very bottom of the
bush,--though to my senses he had made no sign,--and must be dislodged
forthwith.
Why the hummer offered no objection to the kinglet’s presence is beyond
my knowledge. Perhaps he took into account the fact that the kinglet
was here only for the winter; for it was impossible not to surmise
that the hummer had selected this particular spot for his summer home,
and as such meant to hold it against all comers, exercising over it all
the rights of sovereignty. Let the verdin and the phœbe go elsewhere.
The phœbe pretty certainly would have gone elsewhere, hummer or no
hummer. As to what the verdin will conclude to do, things being as they
are, my mind is less clearly made up. He is not so swift as his bullet
of a rival, but I fancy him to be a pretty dogged fighter, able to be
whipped a good many times without finding it out. Still, as between the
two, if I were compelled to wager, I think I should risk my money on
the hummingbird.